Desires of a Wounded Soul
by Ellory
Summary: Pure-blood Culture: Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr., Heir Slytherin, doesn't want to look in the Mirror of Erised. Like all his followers, it cannot give him what he wants: love.


**Title:** Desires of a Wounded Soul

 **Pairing:** Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr./Haradah Potter

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. leaned against the doorframe, gaze trailing across the single set of footprints on the dust-ridden floor. He had left them in this abandoned classroom almost a month ago, after stumbling across it during one of his post-curfew shifts as a prefect. The footprints led over to a large, ornate mirror. The cloth that had covered it lay on the floor in a heap where he had dropped it.

"The Mirror of Erised," Tom whispered. He had known what it was the moment he set eyes on it. Researching magical objects and artifacts was one of his preferred hobbies. He couldn't stand ignorance in others, and wouldn't abide such a trait within himself.

Tom had to _know_.

He didn't care what the subject matter was, as long as he could attain a sufficient grasp on the knowledge inherent therein.

Taking an aborted step forward, Tom propped himself against the doorframe again. As usual, it was time for his rounds. He was supposed to be on the fourth floor right now. He was supposed to be keeping a lookout for students breaking curfew—Gryffindors, the lot of them. Ravenclaws couldn't justify it, Hufflepuffs were too scared to break the rules, and the Slytherins weren't imbecilic enough to get caught.

"What would you show me?" he asked.

Last month, he hadn't been able to look in the mirror.

Tom knew himself well, perhaps too well. He knew exactly how far he was willing to go to achieve his goals. He understood what it felt like to make others writhe in agony; Tom could watch people suffer and not feel a thing. After all, what was their suffering in comparison to his? He was the orphaned scion of Salazar Slytherin's great bloodline. He had been raised in a _Muggle_ orphanage, treated like an abomination, ridiculed and bullied by those lesser than himself.

Tom had returned to the world he never should have lived outside of at the age of eleven. Yet he wasn't aware of the customs and rules that should have been taught to him since birth. He hadn't held himself with the right stature, or projected the proper image when he first arrived. The pureblood heirs and heiresses had turned up their noses at his Muggle last name. They had sneered at his inferior manners. He had been an outcast in his own house. He, the legacy of the great Salazar Slytherin, was no better than a common Muggle to many.

He had changed that, though. Tom had thrown himself into his studies. He'd perfected his manners, had stunned them with his brilliance, and awed them with his heritage. Right now, there were students—servants really—who had sworn their lives to his service, sleeping in various dormitories throughout the castle.

"I have so much," Tom said, "and yet nothing at all."

He took a step forward, placing his shoe in the exact imprint in the dust, not disturbing the rest of the mess on the floor. All of his followers, as loyal and obedient as he knew them to be, loved his power, or his name, or his heritage, his blood, or an ephemeral idea of what he could change. They loved the possibility of a future shaped by his power, changed by his genius, and altered by his words.

"But they don't love _me_."

Tom wasn't stupid. He knew the difference between adulation, adoration, and love. As much as he despised the other houses for their weaknesses, he couldn't help the accursed emotion from swelling within his chest: envy.

He hadn't looked into the Mirror of Erised last month, because Tom knew what it would show him: love.

Love was an emotion. It wasn't something that he could buy with the mounds of gold in his vault. It wasn't something he could induce in others—not really. He had briefly used Amortentia on a half-blood witch, just to see what it would feel like to be loved for the first time in his life. At first, he felt powerful, in control, and undefeatable. But when he looked into her eyes, they were glazed and sycophantic. When he kissed her lips, they were pliant and unemotional. When he asked her to give herself to him, she complied without protest, as if her virtue were of no worth. Before she could, he Obliviated her and sent her away.

That wasn't love.

"I'm not my mother," Tom spat into the silence as he walked across the room.

He had been busy over the summer—finding memories, controlling people, killing relatives who denied him. What he had seen (his mother forcing his father to love her) had proven to him that it wasn't possible.

True love couldn't be coaxed, coerced, or consigned.

Tom's future heirs would not be relegated to a Muggle orphanage. His children would be conceived by a wife who loved him; they would be protected and raised in Slytherin castle.

"If they ever even exist," Tom muttered. Bitterness colored his voice, and he did nothing to smother it. The magical world had seemed like a blessing when he learned of it: being with his own kind. Belonging didn't bring love, though. It didn't ease the loneliness that ate away at him. It didn't heal his wounded soul. All it did was remind him of what he didn't have, no matter his power, position, or prestige.

Gaze trained on his yew wand, Tom remembered Abraxas Malfoy's engagement announcement in the morning paper. His _friend_ —if he could be coined that—had chosen a flighty, pretty witch, with little intelligence. Tom recalled the shattered look in Sylff Selwyn's eyes at the announcement; the fourth-year had been painfully, visibly in love with Abraxas. At least, Tom thought it was obvious. Instead of accepting that love, Abraxas had stomped on it and cast it aside as if it were unwanted and held no significance.

"I would give much to have someone look at me in such a way," Tom said.

He touched the glass of the mirror, and then glanced directly into it. At first, all Tom could see was his reflection. He was tall, handsome, and his prefect badge shone beneath the light of the moon. Then a blurry outline appeared at his side. The more he tried to focus on it, the fuzzier it became. Until, finally, it snapped into sharp clarity. If he didn't know better, he would say he was looking through a window, and that she stood on the other side of it.

The witch in the mirror had bone-pale skin and peach lips. Her hair was the color of a night meant for Dark Magic rituals. Her eyes were the color of the basilisk's scales. Her cheekbones were as sharp as the Slytherin Athame. There was a scar on her forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt, and Tom wondered if she had been struck by death. The girl was captivating, no doubt, but the cloak hanging down her back made her enrapturing. The invisibility cloak.

"Peverell!" he exclaimed in disbelief.

Tom rubbed his left ring finger, brushing across the Disillusioned ring. It had taken him a while to realize the Resurrection Stone had been set in Slytherin's ring. Once he figured it out, though, he couldn't let it out of his reach. It was both a great weapon and a great protection. If his enemies managed to get it in their grasp. . . . It didn't bear thinking about.

The witch turned to face Tom's reflection, and her eyes overflowed with love the moment she saw him. She lifted her arms and cupped his face, before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. Tom's reflection crushed her against his chest, arms winding about her body with familiarity and assurance that he was welcome. When the passionate kiss ceased, Tom's reflection caressed her stomach; the grin on his face was radiant and smug. Then he picked her up and spun her around, before showering her face with tender kisses. His eyes were alight with laughter and contentment.

He was loved.

Pressing his hand against the Mirror of Erised, as if he could feel her warmth, Tom spoke the most honest words of his life. "If I could have you, I would never use you. I would protect and cherish you until my dying breath."

The Mirror of Erised blazed with a golden luster, and then dimmed back to its usual appearance. Tom's reflection winked at him, before kissing the beautiful woman _who loved him_.

"W-where am I-I?"

Stunned that someone had been able to sneak up on him, Tom snapped his head to the left, only to bite his tongue before cursing the intruder. There, standing beside him, hugging the Peverell invisibility cloak to her chest, was a young lady. She had bone-pale skin and peach lips. Her hair was the color of a night meant for Dark Magic rituals. Her eyes were the color of the basilisk's scales. Her cheekbones were as sharp as the Slytherin Athame. There was a scar on her forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt, and Tom wondered if splitting his soul had decimated his mind.

"Hogwarts," Tom answered.

Would he truly care if his mind was pulverized, if the hallucination he was gifted with was someone who loved him?

"W-who are you?" she asked. As if just realizing that he could see her, she flipped part of the cloak up, so that it covered her hair like a scarf. Her cheeks tinged the color of flayed flesh.

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Jr., Heir of Slytherin," Tom said. He was careful not to brag or gloat, even though he was proud of his heritage. A bloodline wasn't something he had earned; it was something he had no control over. If this was real— _please let it be real!_ —he didn't want her to think he was an unbearable snob or prattish git.

"Oh!" She tried to keep hold of her cloak and curtsey at the same time. Tom had to catch her when she lost her balance. "I'm sorry!"

Tom could feel her heartbeat thudding rapidly through her clothes. She was warm and solid in his arms, her weight slight and insignificant to him. Her magic rippled across him, causing the Resurrection Stone to flare up against his skin. It illuminated the room, and her cloak began to glimmer like a liquid galaxy.

She was real. She was _here_. However, she was smaller than she had been in the Mirror of Erised—years younger, in fact.

"What's your name?" he asked, refusing to release her now that he had her.

"Haradah," she whispered, before cringing.

Names were a powerful blessing or curse in the magical world. They helped shape a witch or wizard's destiny. His name meant: _Twin_. Tom had never been destined to be alone; his name cried and pleaded and demanded an equal to stand beside him. Her name meant: _Well of great fear_. At his side, she would have no need to fear. Tom had already committed murder multiple times in his life; he had split his soul. He had tortured, lied, controlled, and stolen. There was nothing he would not do to ensure that this beautiful, fragile young lady grew up to be the fetching witch who loved him.

Tom set his hands on Haradah's shoulders, and then knelt before her. Her gaze was wary, haunted, and he was determined to fix that. "Haradah, you don't need to be afraid anymore."

"I-I'm not afraid!" she protested. She attempted to straighten her shoulders, but Tom wouldn't let her. He could see her battling terror in the depths of her eyes, and he wanted her to know she didn't have to do that anymore.

He would fight for her.

"I'll fight for you," said Tom, tone resolute. He wanted to protect her innocence; he wanted her to be carefree and happy. He would gladly bathe in the blood of her enemies, and then cast a cleaning charm on himself before tucking their future children into bed. He wanted what his reflection in the Mirror of Erised had possessed, and he would do _anything_ to get it.

Anything except what his mother had done . . . because true love was freely given.

"Do you promise?" she asked. Haradah's lip quivered, and Tom's lungs ached in his chest. If Magic hadn't brought her to him, how much longer would she have been able to fight before everything smoldered to ashes around her? What had her parents been thinking, giving her such a lethal, cursed name?

"I promise." Tom's magic fluttered in the air, stirring up the dust in the room.

Haradah lifted her left hand and extended her little finger to him. The dust in the room shot into the air and spun around them like a tornado at the action. Did she know she was offering him the First Rite of Moste Ancient Hand-fasting under the Olde Magick?

Asking would be the honorable thing. Asking would be proper. Asking would show he was a man of good character.

Tom Riddle took his left hand off her shoulder and curled his little finger around hers without saying a word. He couldn't bear to ask. Besides, he would spend the rest of his life making sure that she never regretted it. He would win her heart, so that she never wanted to withdraw from their now-exclusive courtship.

As Haradah kissed their entwined fingers, her magic crashed against his like a tsunami. The windows in the room blew outward, the sound of fracturing glass almost impossible to hear over the sound of his heart thumping. She tumbled against his chest, and Tom swept her up in his arms, being careful to wrap the invisibility cloak around her.

Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as he stood; there was a gentle smile on her face as she slept. It was overshadowed by the triumphant and overjoyed one on Tom's face as he stared into the Mirror of Erised and saw nothing but their reflection.

Haradah was his now. And, by Mordred the betrayer, she would be his _forever_.


End file.
